


For Want of a Ring

by tanghali



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanghali/pseuds/tanghali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate and Sophie's vacation in Paris takes an interesting turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leveragus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leveragus/gifts).



**Prologue:**

_Paris, 8PM_ —The Seine glittered golden with the reflections of the lamplights that lined the street beside it. A handsome pair walked along the road at a leisurely pace, enjoying the cool night air and each other’s company.

“Shame about the dress,” Nate commented offhandedly, looking at the hem of Sophie’s silk dress where there was a purplish stain from the wine that had spilled on it an hour ago, when their waitress had stumbled and dropped a glass of wine at Sophie’s feet.

She made a little sound of annoyance in the back of her throat. “They should have stricter standards in hiring staff. Their service used to be quite superb.”

At Nate’s sideways look, she smiled secretively. “Someone treated me to dinner there some years back.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “What did you steal from the poor sap?”

“I would never,” she gasped, not even trying to hide the lie in her voice. “Besides, the only thing that matters is that I enjoyed tonight more. Ruined dress notwithstanding.”

“Careful, Ms. Devereaux,” Nate murmured. “One might think you liked me.”

Sophie stepped closer to Nate and tucked an arm in his. “Strangely enough, I don’t have a problem with that, Mr. Ford.”

She stretched out her left hand to admire the engagement ring Nate had given to her when he proposed a month ago, only to stop in her tracks and gasp in shock. Nate was awkwardly pulled back.

“What is it?” he asked in concern, searching her face for the source of her distress.

“It’s gone.” She was frowning and staring at her outstretched hand.

“The ring’s gone.”


	2. Chapter 2

“The Paris Museum of Modern Art? What do I know about art theft?” Dave grumbled into the phone sandwiched between his head and his shoulder as he tucked his shirt into his pants. “Uh-huh. That’s right. Nothing.”

“Like I care it’s your anniversary in two days, man,” he said, “I’ll check things out but I’m not rebooking my flight. Company won’t cover that fee, you know that. Your ass had better be here by tomorrow.”

Sighing, Dave tossed the phone towards his bed, not bothering to end the call. It seemed to blink angrily at him for a few seconds before shutting off.

What did he know about art theft indeed? Dave worked the commercial insurance side of the company, unlike Matthew who was an up-and-coming investigator over at art insurance. He was currently in Paris to conduct an inspection on two banks insured by his company. He could not care less about a painting or something going missing. In fact, he’d been looking forward to spending some quality time at the PSG Stadium before leaving for home.

“Matt owes me big time,” he muttered before throwing on his coat, grabbing his briefcase, slipping his phone into the outer pocket, and striding out of the hotel room.

-

Policemen were swarming the area when Dave arrived at the Paris Museum of Modern Art. Bright yellow tape surrounded the entrance, barely keeping the reporters trying to get a statement from the museum staff and the police.

Dave inhaled, exhaled, and squared his shoulders, trying to look very important.

A police officer walked hurriedly past.

“Excuse me, uh, I need to speak to the man in charge.”

The officer’s frustration was palpable as he whirled around and barked out something Dave’s limited French couldn’t catch.

“Sorry, could you repeat that,” Dave said, hands beginning to sweat.

The policeman repeated what he said with no discernable change in speed and with some unwelcome additions. His superior had only been too enthusiastic in schooling him in the art of _how to insult someone in French_ before sending him off on this assignment, so Dave could pinpoint a derogatory phrase or two. Not that it was helping much.

He opened his mouth to request that the officer say it again, more slowly, when a female voice spoke to him.

“He said he needed to see identification.”

Dave fished his coat for his wallet and thrust his AIG id into the policeman’s face. “I’m from the company that insured one of the paintings that was stolen.”

The policeman took his ID and after a few seconds of flipping it over to check if it was genuine, gave it back to Dave and started walking back towards the museum entrance. He didn’t bother to check if Dave was following, which made the already-disgruntled man almost give it up as a bad job. Matt could deal with stupid French authorities. He was done.

He turned to thank the woman who’d translated for him… and paused. Stunning would be the first word he’d use to describe her, right after ‘hot damn’ maybe.

“Thank you,” he said, after a beat too long, “for translating.”

She flipped a lock of brown hair behind her shoulder and smiled like she knew where his thoughts were going. “You’re an insurance agent?” she asked. Her English faintly had hints of French. “Do you mind if I go with you?”

She wanted an inside report, and he wanted more time with her. It was a win-win situation.

“Sure,” he said with what he hoped was a charming grin. “I’m Dave.”

“I’m Sophie. Sophie Devereaux.”

“Sophie,” he murmured. “That’s a nice name.”

Her smile widened and her dark eyes twinkled. “Nice to meet you, Dave.”

“They won’t let reporters in, what with their reputation already in tatters,” Sophie said as they walked towards the entrance. “But we’re only doing our jobs. This is the _third_ time a museum has been robbed in two months, did you know?”

When they reached the museum, Dave asked to be briefed on the situation. The chief of police side-eyed Sophie, but when Dave insisted she was his translator, let her be.

There had been over five paintings stolen last night, each worth millions of francs. Reviewing the video footage, they’d gathered that the thief was a girl whom they suspected had worked part-time at the museum up until two weeks ago. She snuck in after closing hours and tased the security guards who were on night duty. Her face was hidden by a mask, but judging from her lithe frame, she was probably still very young.

“Two of the paintings that were stolen were a Picasso and a Matisse,” said Sophie. “The Matisse was owned by the museum, but the _Le pigeon aux petit pos_ was on loan for an exhibit.”

He double-checked the text Matt had sent about the painting. “That’s the one. Since it wasn’t only the piece stolen, I guess I can rule out fraudulent activity on the owner’s part.”

“It seems so.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and watched the staff and the museum argue another point about security and exhaled. “Guess that’s it for me.”

Sophie looked at him inquiringly. “I thought you insurance types were more… what’s the word… _livelier_ than this. Will there be no chasing the thief to get your artwork back? Will your company just simply pay the insurance?”

“Ah,” said Dave, shrugging. “Well. I’m not really in art insurance. I’m only covering for a friend until I leave this afternoon. So I don’t know what to do, really.”

“Oh,” she said, a little disappointed. “That explains a lot.”

“Explains what?”

“Oh, you know,” she waved a hand vaguely. “Your reaction to the missing paintings.”

He frowned and watched her face, wondering if she could be meaning something else, but her expressions gave nothing away.

“All right, Sophie, since you seem to be the expert here, what should I do next?”

She hid her little spring-bound notebook in her bag and smiled at him. “I think it would make your bosses happy if you tried to find the thief and recover the paintings.”

“She could have sold the paintings by now, or at least fled the country,” Dave said.

Sophie tapped her lower lip and surveyed the room. “She can’t sell the paintings. Well, not the Matisse at least. _Le Jardin_ is too well-known a painting to sell.”

“If she can’t sell them, what _can_ she do with them?”

“Either she’ll keep them for herself, or hold it as ransom. If a painting’s too famous, it will be hard to sell, but museums might pay the thief a ransom amount to get it back,” said Sophie. “The other paintings she made off with aren’t very valuable though, so it’s not likely she’s a collector.”

“If this is what my friend does everyday, I don’t want his job,” Dave commented jokingly to Sophie. “At least we know she’s not a professional. That doesn’t bring us any closer to finding her though.”

In a few moments, he excused himself to phone the company and report what had happened. Sophie lingered in the lounge area, inspecting the painting-less frames from behind yellow police tape and frowning at the shoddy job the girl had done at cutting the paintings out.

She should probably just leave the museum and join Nate. They had split up to find the waitress who had spilled the wine on Sophie’s dress, suspecting she’d been the one to steal the ring. The restaurant they’d dined at kept records of their employees’ residences and mentioned that the girl—Yvonne Fournier—also worked part-time at the Museum of Modern Art.

Getting tired of doing nothing, she pulled out her phone and called Nate.

“Have you found our little diamond thief yet?”

“No, but I think I know where it might be,” came Nate’s voice. “There’s a string of pawnshops near her apartment. One of the brokers has admitted to pawning off a diamond ring last night.”

“I take it from your tone that the pawnshop doesn’t want to give us back the ring.”

“… No.”

“What are you doing?” Sophie thought she heard sounds of metal scraping against metal and wondered what he was up to.

“Trying to fulfill your earliest engagement wish.”

She thought about it. “Meaning?”

“Does this count as stealing the engagement ring?” Nate grunted. “Nevermind that it’s technically stealing _back_ the ring.”

“Nate!” she gasped. She was going for scandalized but it came out as amused.

“You’re a bad influence,” said her husband-to-be, a smile in his tone. “And remind me to thank Parker for teaching me how to crack combination locks.”

“Not until you teach me how to do it,” said Sophie. “I was quite miffed that she chose to teach you.”

“You were out shopping. We were bored,” he said. “And this is the wrong ring,” he continued with an exasperated sigh. “Gotta go, the owner’s come back from his coffee break. Call you later.”

The line went dead before Sophie could tell Nate about the stolen artwork. But why did Yvonne steal both the ring and a couple of priceless paintings? It didn’t really make sense. But it seemed like the kind of case Nate liked to work. They had been getting bored of sightseeing anyway.

She sent him a text message and made for the exit, fully intending to catch up with him, when Dave rushed back to her side. She suppressed a sigh. She’d hoped to give him the slip.

“You going somewhere?”

“Yes,” she said, carefully watching his reaction. “I am going to see my partner.”

She supposed she would have been a better person if she didn’t derive any pleasure from the way his pretty face fell and shoulders drooped, but where would the fun have been in that?

“Oh,” he said.

“You have a flight this afternoon, yes?”

“Yes but—actually, I rebooked it. Decided to give my friend time for his anniversary,” he said sheepishly. “I thought we might try to crack this case together.”

Sophie just managed to avoid rolling her eyes. _Men_.

“Well then,” she said, hoisting up her purse. “Come along. This might be educational for you.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Find the girl,” was Sophie’s vague text message and his three replies of “Why?” had so far gone unanswered.

And she said _he_ was cryptic.

Five minutes ago, police had begun to park their cars along the street where the girl’s apartment was. Nate shied away from them and cursed himself when he realized it had become his instinctive reaction.

He casually took a seat at the café across the street and picked up the newspaper the previous customer had left on the table. He pretended to read it while listening to the police chatter about their case, and considered his options.

If the girl had any sort of wits about her, and if she was the reason the police were in this otherwise-quiet neighborhood, she wouldn’t be anywhere in the area. Which didn’t exactly narrow down where she could possibly be. Paris was a big place, and full of hiding places. He knew this from experience, having chased Sophie through several of hers way back when.

“Bad for business,” said the café owner in heavily-accented English as she sat down beside Nate and sighed.

He jumped in surprise. She made a little shaking motion with her hands when Nate took out his wallet to buy a coffee. “Last week. They come too, take neighbor to prison. No one comes to café.”

“You know who lives there?” Nate asked.

She nodded. “Jack Fournier. Artist,” she said. “Painter. _Et fille_.”

“A painter and his daughter,” he repeated.

The café owner nodded again. “ _Oui_. Their windows always closed. Dirty. Smell like oil.”

He observed the cramped apartment again and saw that the windows had been boarded up, allowing very little light in. Nate knew quite a few people of the artistic temperament and while this kind of behavior wouldn’t be beyond them, he was starting to suspect something more shady going on.

“Do you know what they arrested him for?”

The older woman wrinkled her nose and stood up. “ _Non_ , I don’t want to get involved in nasty business.”

‘But gossiping is fine,’ Nate thought with a wry smile. He thanked the matronly woman anyway, and left money enough on the table for a cup of coffee. Then, standing up, he messaged Sophie where he was going and hailed a cab.

-

_La Santé_ was as bleak a place as he’d remembered. Standing across the gargantuan structure, he looked up at the towering blue gate of the historical Parisian prison and sighed. Sophie would not be happy about this.

“I have half a mind to slap you for this,” she hissed into his ear a few seconds later. “You know how much I detest prisons.”

Speak of the devil.

“Good to see you too, darling,” he said. He faced her and moved in to kiss her on the cheek but stopped when he realized they weren’t alone. He straightened his back and cocked his head at the blonde man who had showed up with Sophie.

“I didn’t know we had company,” he murmured.

“I picked him up at the museum.” She tilted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “He could be useful.”

Out loud, she said, “Nate, meet Dave. He’s in insurance. Dave, meet Nate, my partner.”

Dave blinked at both of them, not bothering to take Nate’s outstretched hand. “You’re not really reporters, are you?”

Nate barked out a laugh. Sophie’s grin widened but she didn’t bother to grace his question with an answer.

“Well, Nate,” she said, “what are we doing here?”

“We need to talk to Jack Fournier,” he said. “He’s Yvonne’s father. He’s our only lead to finding out where she is right now. Police were swarming their apartment when I left. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”

Sophie took her gaze off _La Santé_ and explained the situation at the museum to Nate.

“Busy girl,” he said. “Do you think she’s trying to hold the paintings ransom for her father’s release?”

“That’ll only be successful if she evades capture long enough to make a deal,” Sophie observed. “And from what I’ve seen, she’s… sloppy.”

“She stole five paintings from a museum,” Dave pointed out from the sidelines. “I wouldn’t call that sloppy.”

“ _Please_ ,” Sophie said with an aggravated sigh. “The only thing sloppier than that girl’s technique is the security in French museums. Particularly the Paris Museum of Modern Art. It makes stealing the paintings almost not worth it, really.”

Nate shook his head in disappointment. “I kept telling them to upgrade their system. Eight years later, it’s still the same.”

There was a pause, and then Dave said, “I’m confused. Are you thieves, or…?”

“Nate used to be an insurance investigator,” Sophie explained. “But that’s fixed now.”

“So. Thieves.” Dave confirmed.

“High-tech vigilantes,” corrected Nate. “Except we’re missing the high-tech now.”

The last part was said a little mournfully.

“Oh shush,” said Sophie. “You’re so used to Hardison you’ve forgotten how fun traditional information gathering can be.”

“Now,” she continued, “what’s our play? Interpol agents?”

Nate shook his head. “Left the IDs at the villa, and we should really keep out of Sterling’s radar for now.”

Sophie tapped her lower lip and seemed to reach a decision. “Dave, your briefcase, please.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the blonde suspiciously. “And what makes you think I’m agreeing to anything you say?”

“You’re still here aren’t you?” Sophie said flippantly, holding her right hand out for the briefcase. “And I’m going to be Jack’s lawyer, of course. You and Nate can be my assistants.”

-

Sophie’s change from British thief to French lawyer was almost instantaneous. Dave couldn’t help but stare at her in awe, which probably only lent credence to his cover as her bumbling assistant. He’d noticed when traces of French in her accent had disappeared when she met with her partner, which was kind of impressive in itself, but this was another league entirely.

Beside him, Nate walked a little more sedately, a small smirk on his lips every time Dave caught him looking in his direction.

‘What a prick,’ was his only thought.

If only he hadn’t promised Matt he’d take care of this mess, he’d already be at the airport waiting for his flight back to New York right now. Instead his inability to resist a pretty face had landed him in this situation. And it seemed that he needed them to find the paintings more than they needed him to do… whatever it was they wanted to do.

Really, he had no one to blame but himself.

Sophie was slightly ahead of them, walking like she owned the place. Doors and policemen in the French prison parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses. Every time she was asked for identification, she would haughtily flash a card that Dave was pretty sure was a shopper’s discount card.

It was so easy as to be completely ridiculous.

He could almost understand why the man beside him had switched sides.

Jack Fournier was a thin man in his forties, with a mop of dirty-blonde hair covering most of his face. He looked like he’d seen better days, which, given the state of the  _La Santé_ prison, wasn’t all that surprising. The place was derelict.

He was led to the table with his hands still cuffed, a frown on his face as he saw the three of them, and said something in French that Dave assumed was the English equivalent of, “But I don’t have a lawyer.”

While Sophie spoke to the man in a soothing voice and assured him that they were there to help, Nate and Dave retreated into the corner of the room for a short while.

“What exactly are you trying to do here?” Dave asked.

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Nate said after a thoughtful pause. “Trying to see if we can help. Something like that. This girl’s actions just seem so desperate.”

It was Dave’s turn to pause, not having expected the response he just got. “If she needs help, she should just go to the authorities,” he said finally.

Nate smiled sadly. “Sometimes, that just isn’t an option anymore.”

Dave crossed his arms and watched Jack explain something to Sophie. “I guess I can’t really contradict that point right now since I’m relying on the help of two thieves to get the painting back.”

“Besides,” Nate continued, “she stole Sophie’s ring and it’s been the most exciting thing that happened to us since we got here three days ago.”

Dave frowned at the mention of the ring and decided to ask the question that had been burning in his mind since he’d seen Nate. “Are you, married or something?”

Nate gazed at Sophie with a fond look in his eyes. “Or something.”

“Must be interesting.” He wished he didn’t sound so wistful.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Nate said with a grin Dave could only describe as fierce.

They walked back to the table where Jack and Sophie were talking, and caught the start of Jack’s story.

Jack Fournier liked to think he was an artist of no small talent. He’d received numerous accolades in art school; he had good technique, but he was never able to make anything that was truly his. It was a criticism that followed him well into his career as a professional artist. A vision he eventually abandoned mostly to take care of his infant daughter. He’d resorted to painting imitations of the great masters to sell cheaply to friends in order to feed himself and his daughter.

His saving grace came in the form of Roger Martineau, a businessman who was interested in high-quality imitations to display in his home. This happened occasionally—a wealthy buyer would hear of Jack from his older clients and commission a more complex piece for a higher price. Martineau had requested a Picasso and for fifteen thousand francs, Jack had been very happy to do it.

He had not expected a return call, but Martineau had probably been impressed with his handiwork and commissioned another piece, and another, and another after that. When Martineau started to request duplicates, Jack did not question it so long as the money was being doubled too. A series of robberies from museums? What did he care about those matters?

By then, he and Martineau had developed something of an amicable working relationship, with Martineau even taking the time to invite Jack and Yvonne for dinner at his house occasionally. Commissions were coming in steadily around once every two months, and Jack liked the challenge of having to paint in different styles.

Things changed when Jack noticed that none of the paintings he’d supposedly painted for Martineau’s house were being displayed. When he confronted the man about it, Martineau diffused the situation by saying he had given it to friends and relatives. The issue came up several more times before Martineau finally admitted he’d been selling off the fakes as the real deal on the black market. Irked that he’d been used that way, Jack threatened to go public with the information if Martineau didn’t own up to it first.

He was not prepared when Martineau double-crossed him first and framed him for selling off artwork recently stolen from famous collections. His significant clout with the French police ensured that Jack was going to stay in prison without trial indefinitely. His daughter had tried to bail him out yesterday but had been dismissed without comment.

“So Yvonne really did steal the paintings to rescue her dad?” Dave asked.

“It seems so,” Nate said. “A bit misguided since governments don’t always give in to demands anymore.”

“It’s sweet.”

Nate and Sophie both stared at him. “What?” he said. “I wouldn’t do that for my asshole of a father.”

“We have only each other,” Jack said. “Please,” he continued, “don’t let them place my daughter in jail. I don’t care if I have to stay here.”

Sophie exchanged a look with Nate, who pursed his lips. “That’s going to be difficult,” he said. “The authorities already suspect she took the paintings. You actually have less of a cause to be in prison since painting replicas isn’t a crime.”

“Then I will not tell you where I think my daughter is,” Jack said stubbornly.

“If she gets caught with those paintings,” Sophie said, “she’ll go to jail anyway.”

But even as she said it, she knew it was futile to try and convince the artist. He had already squared his jaw and was no longer making eye contact with any of them.


	4. Chapter 4

Nate paced in front of Sophie’s car, parked a block away from _La Sante_.

“The paintings and the ring are with Yvonne but Jack won’t give us Yvonne’s location unless we can promise her safety,” Nate summarized with a frustrated sigh.

“Even if we do find her, she’ll probably just think we’re one of the authorities trying to trick her into surrendering and not give us anything,” Sophie chimed in, leaning against the driver’s door.

Dave sat on his briefcase, on the asphalt parking lot, and buried his head in his hands. And promptly raised it back again. “If her dad gets out of prison, wouldn’t she come back though?”

Nate paused in his pacing to blink at Dave. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

“In theory,” Dave said with an eyeroll. “How are we possibly going to get Fournier out of jail?”

“There is a way,” Nate said slowly. “You up for it, Soph?”

“Mmm, I think that’s easily accomplished,” said Sophie, straightening up and taking her phone out of her pocket. She dialed a number and slowly walked away from the two men.

“Hey,” they heard her say in a low voice. “Yes, it’s me. Did you really think a silly explosion would kill me?” A laugh. “Listen, it’s been too long, I know… Paris, actually.”

Dave stared at her retreating figure and then turned to Nate. “What is she doing? Discussing dinner plans?”

“She’s setting up a meeting with Martineau as a buyer.”

“That sounded more like making dinner plans,” Dave insisted. “And I still don’t…”

“Understand?” Nate asked. “One way we can get Fournier out of jail is to establish that Martineau is the real mastermind behind the recent string of art thefts. Since he’s selling forgeries, he might still have a couple of replicas around for buyers. If we can get him to sell us a painting that was stolen, all we need are some incriminating pictures or a recording of the transaction and we have him. Or at least Fournier’s arrest will be thrown into question.”

“That sounds dangerous, not easy,” Dave said after he’d digested the plan.

“It’ll work,” was Nate’s only reply.

Before Dave could protest, Sophie walked back towards them, pocketing her phone.

“It’s done. 5 in the afternoon tomorrow, at a warehouse he owns in Grenelle.”

-

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Nate walked inside the dark warehouse. There was something inherently exciting about doing this with Sophie, but he also missed knowing that Eliot would just be a call away, if things went awry.

Sophie had set up the meet for Bob Gibson, not wanting to risk Martineau recognizing one of her established identities, which could make things potentially tricky. They agreed she would stay outside, listening on comms, and only intervening when necessary. They left Dave at his hotel, promising to call when it was all over.

Nate walked to the center of the warehouse, which was lit by a couple of sodium lamps that flickered every few seconds. It was a very empty space, with little hiding places. Within minutes, Nate heard two sets of footsteps approaching his location. He turned around.

Roger Martineau was a heavy-set man, with broad muscled shoulders. Between him and the similarly-built man trailing behind him, it would have been hard to tell which one was the bodyguard.

“Mr. Gibson?” Martineau asked in a baritone.

“Roger!” Nate’s ‘Bob Gibson’ voice boomed all over the warehouse as his face broke into a lopsided toothy grin. “Right on time, I like that in a business partner. Is that the paintin’?”

He gestured to the tube slung across the bodyguard’s torso.

“Indeed,” said Martineau. “Do you have the payment?”

“Uh-huh,” Nate said, holding up his briefcase. “But I gotta see the Picasso first, make sure you’re not givin’ me a Faux-casso. Heh, get it?”

He heard Sophie groan into his earpiece. Martineau looked equally pained.

“Rest assured that is an original study of _Les Demoiselles d’Avignon_ ,” said Martineau.

The bodyguard unslung the tube and gave it to Nate, who uncapped it and shook the painting out. He clicked his tongue. “Light’s kinda messed up here. You might wanna fix that,” he said, finding a small flashlight and shining it on an impressive replica of _Les Demoiselles d’Avignon_.

He stood up, painting in his hands. “Y’know, it’s funny. I can’t even tell the difference, but my girlfriend—“

He stopped in his tracks when he saw the gun pointed at him. “Whoa, what’s going on here?”

“Nate, what’s going on?” came Sophie’s voice.

“Lose the guns, buddy. I got the money, see? Four million francs.” Bending down, he slid the briefcase over to them.

The other man barely glanced at the briefcase before kicking it away. “Bob Gibson, or should I say, Nate Ford.”

Nate dropped the obnoxious southern businessman act and straightened his back, wondering what the hell happened to his usually-watertight alias.

Martineau laughed at the confusion that must have shown on his face. “Don’t worry, Mr. Ford, it’s a good alias. It’s just that you aren’t as anonymous as you like to think you are anymore. It’s known in certain circles that you’re the cause of the recent financial troubles we’ve been having.”

“Then you should also know I’m always watching his back,” said Sophie, appearing behind the two men with a gun cocked at the bodyguard’s head.

“Ah, the elusive Sophie Devereaux I assume,” Martineau said. “Won’t you please step aside? I only have my orders to take care of Mr. Ford here.”

“Not a chance,” she drawled. “Now hands up where I can see them, boys.”

Slowly, the bodyguard put the gun down and raised his arms.

“That goes for you too, Martineau.”

“I think not,” he said, at the same time his bodyguard whipped around to punch Sophie. Martineau pulled a gun out of his pocket just as Nate scrambled to grab the bodyguard’s gun.

Sophie reeled from the punch that had caught her unaware, left shoulder smarting. She raised her right hand and cocked the gun back up at the bodyguard, snarling, “You bastard.”

The bodyguard took a step back at the sight of the gun but did not relax his stance. Meanwhile, Martineau had been too quick for Nate and had him in a stranglehold, gun pointed at his temple.

“I hope this demonstrates how serious I am, Ms. Devereaux. You can leave, or you can watch Nate Ford die, knowing you will be next.”

Despite the situation, Nate snorted. “God forbid I die… at the hands of someone who talks like a cliché,” he groaned, his throat straining against the stranglehold.

A tense pause followed. Sophie was still pointing her gun at the bodyguard but looked like she was weighing her options.

“I told you…” said a new voice suddenly, “… that it would be… dangerous!”

There was a sound of wood splintering against human bone, and Martineau crumpled to the floor, revealing Dave, who was holding a large piece of plywood, behind him. Coughing and gasping, Nate was able to break away from Martineau's now-limp grasp.

“Thanks,” he croaked at Dave who looked the most surprised out of all of them.

“I told you he’d be useful,” Sophie quipped, eyes still on the guard, who relaxed his stance and held out his hands in surrender.

They left Martineau and his bodyguard at the warehouse, tied up with rope they found lying around. A recorder containing all the conversation in the deal up until Nate had seen the gun was taped onto Martineau’s chest. As they walked away from the warehouse, Nate phoned the police to leave an anonymous tip.

The next day, the French media was in an uproar over Roger Martineau’s arrest and alleged involvement in the numerous art thefts that had plagued France. In the _La Sante_ prison, at least one person received this news happily.

“In light of these circumstances,” Sophie told Jack, “they should open your case and give it a thorough review.”

Jack smiled at the trio, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “My Yvonne will be overjoyed, but,” and here, his face turned somber, “she will still be arrested.”

Dave coughed. “Actually, we spoke to the museum and they agreed not to press charges if she returns the paintings.”

He neglected to mention how he scolded the museum staff for gross negligence and oversight and lack of updated security measures and how his insurance company had the right to sue the museum over the theft of the painting… all with Nate ranting in his left ear. The aforementioned man smirked at the memory.

The door to the prisoner holding room opened and a blonde girl in her late teens came in. “Papa!” she gasped, throwing her arms around her father. Sophie watched the scene unfold before them in satisfaction and tilted her head at Dave. “This is what we do.”

Dave acknowledged it with a quirk of his lips. “I know. High-tech vigilantes.”

When Yvonne finally released her father from the hug, she was surprised to see Nate and Sophie in the room. Clearly alarmed, she crossed her arms and tucked her chin inwards.

Nate looked at her in amusement. “Don’t worry, all we want to know is where you pawned off the ring.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stubbornly.

“Yvonne!” Jack admonished. “They put Roger Martineau away. Show some respect.”

She clenched her jaw and bit out, “Third pawnshop on the right.”

He gave her a quick nod. "Thanks."

Dave stepped in front of Nate. “And I’m here to take care of the paintings you stole from the museum,” he chimed in, which made Yvonne shift her glare to him. “Come with me, we’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”

As he led Yvonne back out the door, ignoring the girl's protests, Nate and Sophie approached Jack and handed him a white card. There was a phone number scrawled on it, and the name Parker written right above the number.

“If anything else comes up, you might want to call them. Tell them we sent you.”

-

Later that day, they retired to Sophie's villa, admiring the bright orange sky as the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower. Sophie sat beside him on the sofa and leaned her back against his chest, sighing.

"That was more exciting than I'd expected," she said.

Nate's laugh rumbled pleasantly through his chest. "Imagine what Dave must be thinking," he said, which prompted Sophie to chuckle as well.

“Oh,” Nate said. “Before I forget…”

He held out his hand, indicating Sophie put her left hand in his. She did so gingerly, taking care not to aggravate her sore shoulder. He pulled out the diamond ring from his pocket and slipped it gently back on her ring finger.

“Your _stolen_ engagement ring.”

“You just stole it back.” Sophie said, rolling her eyes.

“To borrow a phrase of yours, my dear, ‘tomato, tomato’.” Nate said.

"So, where next?" he asked after a pause. "You mentioned Africa last month, I believe."

Sophie sighed and laced her fingers with Nate’s. “Honestly? After six months of gadding about, I’d just like to go home for a while.”

He squeezed her hand and nodded, thinking of the family they’d left behind.

“Yeah, I think we'd all like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, apologies for any inaccuracies and mistakes. I researched, but mostly twisted my research to fit the fic. For example, Picasso's 'Dove with green peas' was actually stolen from the Paris Museum of Modern Art years ago and never recovered. And the La Sante prison is actually closed for renovation now. 
> 
> In any case, I hope this was the kind of adventure you had in mind, Laura! Merry Christmas!


End file.
